“Eugh. That was painful to watch,” the spirit said. “Why’d you even ask for that game?”
“Because it’s fun.”
“But was it appropriate for Christmas?”
“That cover is misleading. There’s one girl in the game, and the polycount is so low her boobs are just a triangle. If she didn’t like it, why did she even get it for me?”
“Because she didn’t.”
Time rewound, torn wrapping paper stitched back together onto presents, the boxes were returned under the tree, Peter’s family shot up from their seats and dashed backwards out of the room, the sun plummeted into darkness, snow flew upwards into the clouds, the Christmas tree lights blinked on in all the colors of the rainbow, and then time resumed as normal.
From the chimney came two black boots, followed by a pair of red leggings, skinny and besooted, and from the flue ducked Santa in all her angelic winter beauty. Her pale skin appeared even paler in the icy moonlight. Peter watched as she pulled gifts from a sack and tossed them under the tree, where they defied gravity and sank perfectly into place, like gold coins to the sea bottom. One of those gifts he recognized as Dungeon Keeper 2. Seeing her place it under the tree for him to find made him feel a little sad. He felt like the next time he saw her he would have to say thanks.
Peter watched Santa drink a glass of milk, her eyebrows laid flat in horrible boredom. No doubt this were her ten millionth house of the night, and she had ten million more to go. She numbly nibbled at a cookie and read the note left for her, and it was like Peter was looking at her for the first time again. In the glow of the Christmas tree, her beauty eclipsed every glittering ornament, every sparkling icicle, even the white robed angel up top. And then she was stepping back into the chimney and like a feather in an updraft, up and away.
“Penny for your thoughts,” the Ghost of Christmas Past said.
“Santa seemed a little sad.”
“Did she? I didn’t notice.”
“Or maybe she was just bored. I don’t know. Why are you even showing me this?”
“This is your past, Peter. Maybe there are things you didn’t see, things you don’t remember, or maybe you just don’t want to remember.”
“Yeah, well, I would much rather not remember all this stupid cringe shit that happened around Christmas, thank you. I hope the next thing you show me isn’t embarrassing or rage-inducing.”
“Yes, in fact. I’m interested to see how you react to this next memory.”
The void returned. All that remained was a Christmas tree, all its ornaments sparkling, its multicolor lights glowing softly, and then that too was gone. A window hung in the darkness, and outside Peter saw moonlight and a snowy landscape. Not the arctic, but his backyard, with the colossus oak tree, the fence, and all his neighbors houses lined up in a row. It was the view from his bedroom window. On the floor appeared a trove of toys. Littered about were Biker Mice from Mars motorcycles, Street Sharks plastic abominations, Samurai Pizza Cats action figures, and his childhood favorite: Psycho Preteen Panda Pirates— ‘Scurvy-licious, dude!’— try getting that theme song out of your head! A time capsule of his prepubescent consumerist addiction. His dresser and closet and bookshelf appeared, adorned with participation trophies from little league. And there in a bed, tucked under Super Sentai bedsheets was himself, as a child, sleeping soundly in the dark.
“I can’t believe my parents gave me that haircut,” Peter said.
“Do you remember this?” the Ghost of Christmas Past asked.
Peter shook his head. “I’m sleeping.”
Boots stomped from another room. A rustle of tree branches and a ring of ornaments. Peter looked at his bedroom door, a Polish movie poster of On the Silver Globe scotch-taped to it looked back, and he listened. Footsteps came up the stairs, hit the creaky spot in the floor, and paused just outside the hall. It was an ominous feeling, standing there in the dark, waiting for someone to open his bedroom door. When the door parted open he saw the feminine face of Santa, patron saint of Christmas, with her red military cap and long black hair.
“What’s she doing in my room?” Peter thought aloud.
Santa tiptoed across the room, blind to Peter and the Ghost of Christmas Past. Her eyes locked on young Peter as he slept soundly in his jammies. And then she stood there in the room looking down at him, as if she were waiting for him to wake up. Peter stood beside Santa and leaned forward to get a better look at her face. But Santa was calm and cool as always, and reading her was like trying to figure out the thoughts of a supermodel from their steely runway expression.
Santa carefully knelt down beside Peter’s bed, and gently ran her hand over his forehead, and brushed his blonde hair away.
“What is she doing?” Peter asked.
She caressed his cheek, as if trying to remember the shape of his face, and then she leaned forward over him. Her lips then pressed against his forehead in a delicate kiss.
“Oh my god!” Peter grabbed his own head. “She kissed me! My first kiss and I wasn’t awake to remember it!”
“Oh, come on, Peter. That doesn’t count, it wasn’t on the—”
A barrage of kissing sounds cut the spirit short, and when Peter looked back he saw Santa planting kisses all over his face, into his cheek, down his neck, and yes, on the lips as well. The spirit turned her head away and shielded her eyes, as if she didn’t want to look, but it was merely out of politeness for Peter’s privacy. A mad passion had taken over Santa and she was grabbing his young head to turn it and kiss every inch. She climbed up onto his bed and hovered over him, desperately marking him with hickeys, and the final kiss, the pièce de résistance, was a deep open mouth smooch. When Santa pulled away she tugged at his bottom lip.
Peter stood wide eyed and in disbelief of the make out session.
“I am so hard right now,” Peter said.
Santa leaned into young Peter’s ear and whispered, “You don’t know it yet, but one day we’ll meet, and when that happens…”
Santa stood up and left the room with her thought unfinished, leaving young Peter with disheveled hair and half-untucked in bed.
“Holy shit, Santa is in love with me!” Peter said. “She’s been in love with me since I was a kid and I never knew! Oh my god! Can you rewind time? I want to see that again.”
“You’re not… bothered by the age difference?” the spirit asked.
“It’s me we’re talking about, here. Let’s rewind, come on.”
And right at that moment, who should arrive but Yuzuka, the head of security, jacketless and with sleeves rolled up her muscly forearms. At first Peter thought that she too was a vision of the past, but the tall and violent elf immediately spotted him and the spirit, and like a dream-within-a-dream she charged.
“Yuzuka?” Peter asked.
Without word, Yuzuka lunged at the Ghost of Christmas Past, and wrestled the frilly sequined spirit to the ground. The spirit struggled to escape, but found her arms and legs locked in Yuzuka’s superhuman grip, and so the only thing she could do was levitate up into the air, and drag the dreaded security elf up along with her, until they smacked into the ceiling with an explosion of fairy dust. Yuzuka slipped her arms around the spirit’s throat and squeezed to choke her out, but this chapter has really gone on for too long, and there are other matters at hand to narrate. So we will pick up this thread in the next chapter after some milk and cookies.